Binary Stars
by geekyfrog
Summary: Like binary stars, they are joined for eternity, circling each other in an endless gravitational rotation...GSR. Grissom's POV.
1. Prologue: Sublimation

Author's Notes: Thanks to gabesaunt for the beta and all the encouragement. And Nomadic Soul, words fail to express my gratitude; this wouldn't be half of what it is without you. This is my first fic, so please let me know what you think! It is a WIP but the first four chapters are in near-final form so I will be updating frequently.

**Prologue: Sublimation**

As he drove to work, Gil Grissom was in a restlessly buoyant mood. His thumbs drummed against the steering wheel as he navigated the light traffic, the erratic rhythm a release valve for his nervous energy. He had a disquieting awareness of both a heightened sensitivity to the stimuli of his surroundings and at the same time an odd, almost clinical detachment. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard and confirmed that minutes were passing with their normal speed, yet he felt as if this moment existed outside of time. _Womblike_ – the word came, unbidden, perfect. Soon, he would pull into a parking space outside the office and exit the state of suspended animation in which he had been living, would be born to the world anew. To calm himself, he allowed his mind to replay the events which led up to the choice he had just made.

He had been living in a climacteric period for quite a while, he realized, but the final catalyst had been his last shift. The team had worked an especially difficult case – an emaciated body found in the desert led them to a torture chamber eerily reminiscent of the medical experiments at Auschwitz. After his many years of service, he had thought himself inured to the depths of the human capacity for cruelty. He had been wrong. What made it even more agonizing was the personal connection; the victim was Zoe Kessler, the daughter of his old friend, Lady Heather.

To be fair, he acknowledged to himself, he and Heather Kessler hadn't been friends for a long time. They had been close, once. She had _known_ him, instantly – that had always been her gift. He had been seduced by what she offered him: kindness, steadiness, acceptance, and a chance to explore a world that had always intrigued him – with no questions, no commitments. What was the phrase Greg would have used? – _friends with benefits_ – the ideas kids had these days, and yet it should have been the perfect arrangement for a shy, intensely private middle-aged entomologist with intimacy issues.

He had enjoyed her company immensely. The conversations – oh, how he missed the conversations, the joy of talking freely with your intellectual equal. But one night, tired and seeking comfort, he had taken her up on the _benefits_ that were an unspoken part of the equation. It had been a bad decision on his part, he knew, since they were investigating a case that involved the murder of two of her employees, but he was so tired of being lonely. It hadn't even been kinky – he smiled wryly at the thought – she had known him so well, had known he was intrigued but not ready. Instead it had been slow and sweet and intense, the sensations incredible, the physical release unlike anything he had experienced.

But. Even now his throat tightened at the memory. The most exquisite sadness he had ever known was relentlessly intertwined with the triumphant pleasure of his orgasm. The longing for Sara had been an acutely physical pain – his chest aching, his throat closing, his lashes dampening as he squeezed his eyes against the sting. Of course, Heather had known that too, had fixed him in that clear gaze of hers, had taken his face in her hands and caressed the tension around his eyes with her thumbs as she whispered, "Oh, Gil, this isn't going to work." All he had been able to do was mumble hoarsely, "I'm sorry. Heather, I'm so sorry."

Downshifting for a red light, he felt his skin pinken a little with embarrassment. Heather had been her elegant, ladylike self, letting him go with no recriminations. She had made him tea the next morning, and it had all been so civilized – and then he had realized that she was a diabetic, and therefore linked to the case. On an instinctive level, he had known that she wasn't involved in the murders. But the evidence had been there, had needed to be processed, and he had done what he had to do.

Yesterday, he had seen her outside of the morgue after she had identified her daughter's body. It was the first time they had spoken since she had been cleared in the case involving her employees. She had made it clear he hadn't been forgiven, and he had accepted her ire, pained by how much he had wounded someone he truly cared about.

At the end of the case, he had been the first one on the scene as she was whipping the modern-day Mengele who had tortured her daughter. His first reaction had been relief that he had gotten there in time; she didn't need to face murder charges on top of everything else. He had caught the end of the whip and jerked her around to face him, urging her to stop, though he feared she couldn't hear him.

But she _had_ heard him, had collapsed against him in tears. He'd murmured soothing sounds of comfort, fisting his hand in her hair and stroking her head while she cried. He had never been good with words, he knew – but he poured out his heart in the only way he could, giving her his _mea culpa_ in the tenderness of his embrace. And even then, damn him, he couldn't stop thinking of Sara – what it would be like to hold her this way, what it would be like to offer her comfort, what it would be like to tell her he loved her.

His reverie had been broken by the squeal of tires as a squad car pulled up. Heather had lifted her head off his shoulder and looked at him, her stormy-ocean eyes surprisingly clear though her husky voice was still rough with tears. "Don't wait to say I love you, Gil. That wall around your heart won't protect you when she's gone."

After shift, he'd gone to ride the X-Scream, seeking comfort in the familiar. But the anticipation at the crest and the thrill of the plummet didn't provide him the usual catharsis. Bemused, he had gone home to bed. He had expected sleep to elude him, but it overtook him like a gentle gift, dark and dreamless. Hours later, he had awoken, more refreshed than he had felt in years.

Heather's words had been ringing in his ears, urging him to take the risk he had been avoiding for so long. He had been shocked at how quickly the decision had come, as the frozen wall protecting his heart had not just melted, but instantly evaporated. _Sublimation._ The certainty that he needed to approach Sara about their relationship had left him feeling off-kilter, but strangely centered at the same time.

He made the final turn into the parking garage, sliding his old Mercedes into its usual spot. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he noted his heart beating quickly with the familiar eagerness he felt on the first climb of a roller coaster. _This is it, Gil. Find Sara, ask her to have breakfast after shift, and then… _His thoughts trailed off. He couldn't quite think of _what_ he would say to her, but he trusted that words would come in the moment. More excited than he had been in years, he turned off the engine, unbuckled his seatbelt, and stepped out of the car. Closing the car door, he walked towards his future with an anticipatory grin on his face.


	2. Ch 1: Calculating Randomness

**Rating: **M for adult situations

**Disclaimer: **I'm not affiliated with CBS and have no claim on these characters.

**Author's note: **Thank you so much to all who reviewed the Prologue. Your encouragement and support is intoxicating!

**Binary Stars Chapter One: Calculating Randomness**

Striding confidently down the hall to his office before the start of shift, Grissom heard a snippet of music. The melody teased the edges of his cortex, bringing to mind half-formed images. His own nine-year-old self… his friend Mikey Masterson… sandlot baseball. He frowned with frustration. Too bad the darn tune was just a quarter-step off key. If whoever was producing it would stay on pitch, he might be able to retrieve the entire memory.

Catherine slowed to study him as she approached. He noted the set of her jaw and the arch of her eyebrow… yes, she definitely had her _I'm on the trail of something_ expression on her face. Normally, he liked to see it. She was a tenacious investigator; when she had a lead she would pursue it with a dogged single-mindedness that almost always got results. But when that gaze was directed at him, he felt a little nervous. _Good thing insects aren't sentient,_ he mused. _I know what it feels like to be pinned to a specimen board._

"Yes, Catherine?"

"You – you're whistling!" He heard the stunned wonder in her voice and watched as she ticked off her points on her fingers. "The shadows are fading under your eyes. You actually look relaxed. You've got that cat-who-ate-the-canary grin…"

He felt the need to defend himself, but somehow he couldn't manage to wipe the Mona Lisa smile from his face. "Umm, I…"

Her eyes widened as she reached her conclusion. "Gil Grissom, you got laid!"

He raised one eyebrow at her. "Hardly."

"Hardly, my ass. I know that look…" She regarded him with a combination of amusement and tenderness. "It's about time, sunshine." She gave him a quick kiss and zipped by him, gloating. Grissom stood still for a moment, unconsciously brushing his fingertips over the spot on his cheek where her lips had touched him.

_Well, darn. No wonder the tune sounded familiar._

He sat in his office, sorting through cases and planning assignments. It was only a few minutes before shift. Intent on his work, he didn't notice Sara take up her usual pose in his doorway.

"Grissom?" He started. "Did Catherine just _kiss_ you?"

_No! Of all the people to have seen this, not you, Sara. _"Let me guess," he said dryly. "You and Greg and Warrick saw us in the hall, and you've been dispatched to get all the juicy details."

She blushed. "Umm, something like that. So… what _was_ that all about?"

He rolled his eyes. "Catherine is under the impression that I am having intercourse with some mystery woman, and she wanted to congratulate me."

Sara snickered.

He assumed a wounded face. "Is that so very improbable?"

"Well, _ye-es._ I mean, not that you aren't capable of finding… umm…" Awkwardly, she cast about for the right words. "…female companionship. But Grissom, you're married to your work. Everyone knows that."

"Believe it or not, Sara, I do have a life outside this lab."

A bit taken aback, she considered the possibility, eyes dulling in the exact moment when she acknowledged it might be true. _Oh, honey, you have nothing to worry about. You're the only one I want._

_Take a deep breath, Gil. You can do this. _"Listen, there's something I need to talk to you about." _Sweet heaven. What if she says no to breakfast?_

"Grissom, shift starts in three minutes. Can it wait?" Clearly uncomfortable, she was trying to get away.

"Well actually, yes… it's, umm, personal. So yes. Would you have breakfast with me after shift and we can talk then?"

Blinking in surprise, she was silent for a moment. "Well, sure. Okay."

He nodded curtly. "Okay, then."

She turned to go, but he stopped her. "Sara? For the record, I'm not."

"Not what?" He merely raised his eyebrows at her. "Oh. Good."

Sighing in frustration, he tossed the pen across his desk, forgoing all pretense of making headway on his paperwork. Any other night in Vegas would have served up _something_ interesting, case-wise. He tried for a minute to compute the odds that the one shift when he really needed to lose himself in work had turned out to be the quietest one in years, then gave up on the complexities of calculating randomness.

He and Catherine had returned from the robbery hours ago. Warrick and Sara were in the interrogation room wrapping up with a suspect from their B&E, and Greg was hanging out, annoying Jacqui while she processed the partials from his scene.

Indulging himself in another loud sigh, he laced his fingers behind his head, rocking back in his chair. An amorphous dread of the coming conversation had slowly supplanted his happy anticipation from the start of shift. Too much time to think. Sara's voice spoke to him out of the depths of his memory: _"You know, by the time you figure it out, it really could be too late."_

He glanced at his watch. Only half an hour until the end of shift. Levering himself out of his chair, he walked towards the break room to get a cup of coffee. It wasn't the best thing to settle his nerves, he reflected, but at this point he seriously doubted that anything could. He might as well distract himself instead. The aroma and taste of a really great cup of coffee – that was about as good as distraction could get at work.

He rummaged through the cabinet, looking guiltily for Greg's Blue Hawaiian. His newest CSI's excellent taste in coffee was matched by his creativity in finding hiding places for his secret stash. Grissom checked the usual places, to no avail. He was about to give up when the orange label on a plastic cylinder in the back of the top shelf caught his eye. Metamucil. _Gotcha, Greg._

He tipped some of the beans into the hopper on top of the coffee grinder. With the soft growl of the burrs he was treated to a delicious aroma. He transferred the ground beans to the filter basket on the coffeemaker, filled the reservoir with water, and flipped the switch to brew.

Sinking into a chair, he drummed his fingers on the table as he waited for the hiss-drip of the coffee brewing. He heard footsteps approaching down the hall, and then the distinctive ring of Sara's cell phone.

"Sidle," she answered crisply. A pause. "Oh my God."

The skin on the back of his neck prickled, hairs rising in a strange premonition. He was on his feet at once, limbs tangling briefly with a table leg, then heading for the hall.

A choking sound. "When?"

Warrick's voice, deep and concerned. "Sara? Sara, you okay?"

Her voice again, tinny and far away. "When is it?" Then faintly, "Thank you."

He rounded the corner in time to see her leaning weakly against the wall. Her cell phone slipped from her hand and crashed, echoing oddly as the battery separated and went skittering across the hall.

Everything seemed to unwind in slow motion as he watched her fold neatly to her knees and lean forward on her hands. Warrick dropped instantly to her side, stroking her hair up and back and holding it for her as she retched helplessly, spilling her lunch onto the floor.

Reaching them, he crouched on her other side, rubbing her back gently as she vomited again and again. He caught Warrick's eye, questioning the younger man silently. Warrick shrugged, clearly confused as well.

Finally, the heaves subsided to snuffling hiccups. "Sara?" asked Warrick softly. "Can you stand?"

She nodded. Warrick helped her to her feet and guided her around the sour mess on the floor. Grissom picked up the pieces of her cell phone and walked into the break room as she slipped heavily into a chair. Rubbing her hands gently, Warrick knelt at her feet. Alarmed and feeling the need to do something concrete, Grissom brought her a glass of water.

"So… what happened?" asked Warrick.

"Lisa's dead."

The two men exchanged another set of bewildered glances. "Who is Lisa?" Grissom inquired quietly.

"My college roommate. Lisa Archer. She just died."

"Oh, Sara, I'm so sorry." Warrick's concern was palpable. "Was she in an accident?"

"No. She, umm, she had breast cancer. She's been sick for a while."

Still trying to put the pieces together, Grissom kept probing. "But you haven't asked for any time off lately."

Her head whipped up and she looked at them defiantly, bleakness in her eyes. "Thanks, Grissom, for pointing out what a terrible friend I am." She laughed mirthlessly. "I couldn't face it. I knew I should go see her but I kept putting it off. And now it's too late."

_Oh, Sara. No wonder you were so sick._

She bowed her head again. Grissom closed his eyes briefly against the pain he had unwittingly caused her. Her hands were locked tightly in Warrick's, in a grip of desperation.

He debated the best course of action. Clearly, Warrick was doing a better job of soothing her at this moment. But he was the supervisor and as such he was responsible for the health and well-being of his team while they were on his shift.

_You're rationalizing. Try again._

_I can't bear to see her hurting like this. I can't stand the thought of someone else comforting her._

He looked at Warrick. "Close up shift for me, would you, 'Rick?"

"Of course." Warrick tugged on her hands until she raised her head. "If you need anything, I'm here for you." She blinked at him.

"And Griss? Take good care of her."

Grissom nodded his agreement. He slipped an arm around her shoulders. She didn't resist as her drew her to her feet and led her down the hall.

"Come on, Sara. Let's get you home."


	3. Ch 2: Parallax

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature. But not overly graphic... yet.  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.   
**Author's Notes:** Thanks to the lovely gabesaunt for the beta, again... your suggestions were spot on. And Nomadic Soul, what can I say? You're such an integral part of this process.

**Chapter Two: Parallax**

Grissom pulled into a parking space outside Sara's building. He had barely stopped the car when she jumped out, striding quickly towards the front door, still saying nothing. He hurriedly killed the engine and locked the car, catching up with her just as she jerked the door open with such force that it slammed against the outside of the building. Catching the door so it didn't slam shut, too, he followed her down the hall to her apartment.

Her hands shook as she tried to fit the key in the lock and he noticed her arms were covered with a fine web of gooseflesh. Finally, the notches in the key connected with the tumblers in the lock, and she walked inside without a glance at him, almost as if she were unaware of his presence.

He didn't ask, just followed her inside, took out the keys, laid them on her counter, and closed the door. They were in her kitchen, and he noticed with surprise that the drab, dreary place he remembered had been brightened with a coat of butter yellow paint and accented with touches of red – a dishtowel here, a magnet there, a new teakettle on the stove.

The evidence confirmed what he had noticed at work over the past few months – Sara was healing. The counseling had helped her. A wave of concern washed over him. She was so determined, so courageous, so strong… what would this setback do to her?

She didn't look strong at this moment. Her back to him, she gripped the counter with both hands and bowed her head. He hesitated for just a second, and then instinct took over. He stepped behind her and folded her in his arms, wanting only to offer her comfort.

She turned into his embrace and wordlessly laid her head against his chest. She wasn't crying, but her entire body quivered with fine tremors. Resisting the temptation to nuzzle the top of her head, to stroke her hair, he simply held her.

He breathed deeply, soaking in her scent. The top notes were unpleasant: the bitter smell he recognized as the aftermath of fear, and an objectionable sourness from when she had gotten sick. Below these, though, was the aroma he knew simply as the essence of Sara. It was something she always wore, and it intoxicated him. She smelled of ripe fruit and damp earth, and something else, something complex and multilayered and mysterious.

Her body seemed to be quieting a little. He heard her mumbling something against his chest but couldn't make out the words.

"What did you say, Sara?" He tried to pull away so he could look at her while she talked, but she resisted, burying her head and refusing to meet his eyes.

"Damn you, don't make me beg for it. Please make love to me. I – I know it's a bad idea but I promise you we'll close the door on it and never talk about it again afterwards. I just – I need to feel alive tonight. Please, Grissom…"

He couldn't breathe. He felt like he had taken a blow to his solar plexus. His brain fought desperately for control, but his body – oh, his body heard her and was reacting faster than his mind could keep up. Heart pounding, the roar of blood in his ears drowning out all sound, he answered her by pinning her back against the counter.

_OhgodSara… honeyIwantyou_ and he jerked her face roughly upwards and kissed her. He felt the floodgates open as years of denial and desire poured free. His kiss was raw as he forced her mouth open, slipping his tongue inside –

And _sweet God,_ she was kissing him back, kissing him with an equal ferocity, wrapping her hands in his hair as she writhed beneath him. The combustion was faster and more intense than he had dreamed in his deepest fantasies. He was finally here with her, about to take her against her kitchen counter…

Somehow, that thought penetrated his libido and reached his consciousness. _About to take her against her kitchen counter_ – his Sara, who he loved more than words, whose desperation was borne of her trauma that day, who deserved so much more than this.

It took everything he had to break the kiss. "No, Sara, I won't," he gasped as he fought for control, sucking in huge gulps of oxygen in an attempt to clear his brain. He could feel small spasms throughout his body and knew she must feel them too, just as she couldn't possibly miss his arousal pressed against her belly. _Smooth, Gil, really smooth._ He rested his forehead against her hair and waited for the recriminations he surely deserved.

She surprised him. Instead of pulling away with the anger he expected, she simply rested in the embrace, her head against his chest again. She was breathing hard too, he noted with surprise – _could she possibly have been equally affected?_ His desire ratcheted up another notch at the thought, but this time tenderness won out, and he simply tightened his arms around her and pressed a kiss into her hair.

"Grissom," she began, and the skin on the back of his neck prickled at the tone of her voice. She sounded sad, tired – _defeated._ "I can't do this anymore. We've been dancing this dance ever since that first seminar."

She drew back and looked at him thoughtfully. "I sometimes think we're like binary stars, you and I, locked in an endless gravitational rotation with each other. But the thing about binary stars – they accrete. Feed each other's existence, until they can't exist on their own.

"I'm dangerously close to that point with you, Grissom. I've offered you everything I have to give – my thoughts, my heart, my body– and I don't… I don't understand why it isn't enough." Her voice broke. "But I do understand that it isn't, that it has never been."

He drew in a breath, feeling the icy fingers of panic twisting in his belly, liquefying his viscera. The parallax pierced his soul. _How can we see the same thing so differently just by approaching from different angles? How can you think you were never enough for me? If anything, you have always been too much, so much more than I deserve, so much more than I can fathom._

"Grissom. I love you. I will for the rest of my life. But I have to walk away while I still can. I just… I'm done, Grissom. This non-relationship we have – it's killing me. I'm nothing but a shell. I couldn't even bring myself to help my best friend die." She paused, swallowed, continued. "Tomorrow, I'm going to start looking for another job. And right now, I want you to go."

He watched himself dispassionately as the detachment that was his favorite defense mechanism kicked in. _Subject is experiencing significant discharge of the sympathetic nervous system. Acetylcholine triggers the release of epinephrine and norepinephrine resulting in…_ and just as quickly the disconnect resolved, plunging him back into the midst of the adrenal storm.

"Sara," he began, and his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. "You – you're right. I have been… I've been ambiguous and I know my… vacillation has been difficult for you. Look, I know it's more than I deserve but I'm asking for your forbearance. I have some things I need to say and I want you to listen. When I'm done, if you still want me to leave, I will." _Christ, I'm really shaking now._

He pulled back a little bit and slipped a quivering finger under her chin, tipping her face up so he could look at her. Her dark eyes looked huge in her pale face, but they locked on his and he knew she was listening. "Will you hear me out?"

Long seconds passed as her eyes searched his. He tried desperately to gauge her thoughts but his normally transparent Sara was unreadable. Finally, she gave a slow, barely perceptible nod of her head. He exhaled sharply, feeling dizzy, and realized that he had been holding his breath. "Can we sit down?"

Saying nothing, she led him into the living room and gestured towards the couch. Wiping his damp palms on his knees, he perched gingerly on its edge. She chose a wing chair and folded gracefully into it, tucking her legs underneath, waiting.

_Mother of God, help me. I have to,_ have _to get this right. _

"Sara, you tempt me and you terrify me." Her eyes widened in surprise. "I don't like to want things. I learned that early in life. Wanting things leaves you defenseless. If you don't want, if you don't crave, then you don't get disappointed, and you don't get hurt. I've tried to order my life so I don't have needs I can't fulfill. But you – ever since I first met you, you've made me... hunger.

He made a sound of frustration. "I'm sorry, I'm not expressing it well. With you – with you I can glimpse happiness, for the first time in my life. I can't describe how incredibly enticing that is. But reaching for that chance of happiness – well, the other side of that coin means staring into the abyss.

"One thing I have always believed about us is that I couldn't do it halfway, honey. I thought that it was better not to begin, because if we started something together, I would need you more than I need air to breathe. And if you ever left…" he trailed off bleakly.

Sighing, he slipped off the couch and knelt in front of her, palms up in a mute request. Tentatively, she placed her hands in his and he gripped them urgently. "Do you remember at the start of shift I asked you if you would meet me for breakfast because I wanted to talk to you?" She nodded slowly. "I wanted to talk about us." He paused, searching her face.

_Sara, please hear me. _

"I wanted to tell you that a lot of things lately have made me realize… I'm nearly fifty years old, Sara. I've got less than half of my life left. And the thing is – the abyss is there. I can't escape it by refusing the other side of the coin. I _already_ need you. Binary stars, right?"

A sad smile flitted across her face and was gone. Her eyes bored into his soul. The vulnerability he felt dried his mouth and hoarsened his throat, but he didn't break her gaze. "Sara," he continued quietly, "I finally understand - if the abyss is there anyway, why not take the chance?

"I can't live the rest of my life without reaching for happiness. Even if I never get there, I need to know that I tried. I can't promise you that I won't – I won't falter at times. This is new territory for me and I know I'm going to walk this road imperfectly. But I want to walk it with you." He glanced down at their joined hands to gather his courage, then met her eyes again. "Will you, Sara?"

Impatiently, Sara jerked her hands from his, ignoring his question. "Grissom, you're not making sense. I hear the words you're saying, but your actions don't follow. Why pull away tonight?" Her voice rose as the anger built, and she stood up and walked to the window, staring out at the street. "You say you're ready to take the risk, but your declarations are empty. We could have been… _amazing_ together."

She rotated to face him. "At least give me the respect of admitting that you wanted me."

He was surprised to feel the hint of a blush heat his cheeks. He glanced down at his body, where the physical proof of his arousal was all too visible, and then looked at her squarely. "Wanted… and still want, honey," he said softly.

"Then why?" she asked, and he knew this was it, knew his next words were critical. Uncomfortable on his knees, he stood for the most important conversation of his life.

"Because I…" he began, and faltered. Taking a different tack, he tried again. "It's a normal human reaction – when we look too closely at death, we want to do something that makes us feel alive. It's as old as time. You even said it yourself, earlier, right?" He watched carefully, waiting for her acknowledgement.

At the slight dip of her head, he continued. "Sara, I do want you – but not like this. I don't want one evening of pleasure. If I'm taking this risk, I want a lifetime of it. I love you, Sara, and if we are ever, um, intimate with each other," he blushed again at his old-fashioned phrasing – "I want it to be about that, not about some biological response to trauma."

_"What_ did you just say?"

His heart sunk. He had blown it. _Why_ had he talked about it so clinically? She had just lost her best friend, and was feeling guilty to boot. He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. "I'm sorry, Sara. I didn't mean to imply that it was… that you were… that biology…"

"Not _that_ part. The other part. About why…" she trailed off.

He glanced up at her, puzzled. Going over the conversation in his mind… the other part… _oh! _"You mean when I talked about wanting intimacy to be an expression of the love I feel for you?" he asked tentatively, walking over to her.

"Yes. Say it again." Her eyes were suspiciously shiny, and comprehension finally dawned.

"I love you, Sara." A tear spilled out of her left eye and down her cheek. He reached up with his right hand and gently traced its track with his thumb. "Oh, honey, didn't you know?" he asked hoarsely. She turned her face into his hand, snuffling a little. "Sweet, sweet Sara," he sighed. _"That_ was never, ever in question." He pulled her into his arms as her tears began in earnest.

This time, he allowed himself the pleasure of sliding his fingers through her silky hair, stroking her head to comfort her while she cried. He said nothing, just let her exhaust herself, soaking his shirt as she spent her anger, pain, and sorrow.

While she cried, he thought about what had just happened. There was a new and unfamiliar emotion swelling in his chest. What was it? He probed it with his mind. Not love; he had loved her for years; he knew what that felt like and though that sensation was there as always, this was something else. He had the tiniest, most tentative sense that maybe, just maybe, this beginning was going to take them somewhere.

_Hope,_ he realized. It was hope.

The relief was palpable, coursing through his body, weakening his muscles. Unable to keep standing, he led her to the couch and pulled her down with him. Simply enjoying the sensation of holding her, he had no sense of time passing as they sat there. After she stopped crying, she rested against him for a long time, but finally she raised her head and wriggled off his lap to sit next to him. "Grissom, I'm beat."

"I can see that." He noted the smudges of exhaustion under her eyes. "You need to get some rest – it's been an emotional day. Why don't I leave so you can sleep?"

She nodded her assent, but he saw resistance in her eyes. "Do you need anything before I go?"

"Just a little – just a little reassurance, I guess. Grissom, I'm afraid if you leave now that all of this – that this new place between us will evaporate."

"Oh, Sara." He smiled ruefully. "Honey, we couldn't close the door on this now even if we wanted to. You know, you never answered my question earlier. Will you… will you explore with me what we can be, together? And be patient with me, because I'm new at this?"

"Griss."

He smiled at the diminutive. She had never used a nickname for him before.

"Yes. It's always been yes."

His hands gripped hers, reflexively, fiercely. "Thank you." He thought for a moment. "Did they tell you when Lisa's funeral will be?"

"Not for five days. Her baby brother is stationed in Iraq and they're waiting for him to get home on bereavement leave."

"Okay. I - I'd like to have dinner with you. Shall we wait until after you get back?"

She considered. "No," she replied slowly. "I don't think Lisa would want me to put my life on hold. I've wasted too many minutes already."

"Okay, honey. If that's the case, we're both off next shift. Do you know Angelo's?

"No, I'm not familiar with them."

"It's way off the strip. Not fancy, but the food is excellent and it's kind of intimate, so it's good for talking. Plus I'm pretty sure there are a number of vegetarian options. 8:00 tonight?"

She smiled sweetly. "Sounds perfect. I would be honored."

He lifted her hands gently to his lips. "Lovely Sara, the honor is all mine. I'll pick you up at 7:30?"

"Okay," she breathed.

"Okay," he answered, stroking her face one last time, holding her gaze and stretching the moment out as long as he could before he turned to leave. At the door he paused and looked back. She was still watching him, her fingers pressed to her cheek where his hand had just been. 

"Sara. Are you okay to be alone?"

"I will be. I need to – I need to write a letter to Lisa."

_Ahh, Sara. Brave as always. I love you so._ "Call if you need anything?"

"I promise," she said.

Taking a deep breath, he slipped out the door while he could still convince himself to go.


	4. Ch 3: Resonance

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature, for a little …ahem… solo exploration. If this offends you, please don't read.  
**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.  
**Author's Notes:** Nomadic Soul, my continued appreciation for your beta-extraordinaire skills.

This is my favorite chapter so far. Please let me know what you think.

**Chapter 3: Resonance**

Grissom swam slowly back to consciousness, gradually regaining awareness of his surroundings. He was lying diagonally across his bed… on top of the covers… wearing only his boxers. _What the hell? _Squinting to bring the room into focus, he peered at the clock on the nightstand. 4:57 PM. _Okay._ He had about two hours to get ready for his date with Sara.

_A date with Sara!_ He closed his eyes again and let the memories of the incredible, improbable events of the last twenty-four hours wash over him.

Driving happily. Catherine kissing him. Sara confronting him.

Laughter in the break room. An ordinary case. An extraordinary night.

Coffee brewing. The buzz of Sara's cell phone. Time stopping, and then rushing, galloping, impossibly fast.

Sara's face, white and pinched with shock. Fear mirrored in his. Impotent. Helpless.

Sara sagging to the ground. Rushing to her. Watching her be sick.

Hearing her story. Warrick comforting her. Intense, inexplicable jealousy.

Driving her home. Terrified by her silence.

In her apartment. Wanting her. Kissing her. _Having _her. _Ohgod._

Loving her enough to stop.

Talking. Seeing the door to his future closing. Watching the knob turn. Knowing that he had to build a doorstop out of words before the spindle slipped into place and the lock clicked shut forever. And somehow, miraculously, doing it.

Driving home, shellshocked, tumescent.

Shucking his clothes. Leaving them where they fell. Walking to the bathroom.

Preparing to relieve himself as he did after almost every shift with Sara. Mechanically, joylessly, never allowing himself the exquisite _painandpleasure_ of fantasy.

Breaking his own rule.

_Delicious._

He groaned, rolled over, sat up. He scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his fingertips. Sniffing the air, he realized that the expected scent of coffee was missing.

_Guess I didn't set up the coffeemaker last night. Hope this isn't an indication of how my day is going to go._

He stood up and stretched, then padded into the kitchen to make the coffee before he went to shave and shower.

Normally, he was quick to go through the motions of getting ready. Today, though, he stood under the shower head for long minutes after he was clean. Both hands worked at the kinks at the base of his neck, trying in vain to relieve the painful tightness. _Why am I feeling so badly?_

Sighing, he turned around to face the shower head. He felt open, raw, exposed. He lifted his face to the hot spray, hoping that the steaming water would wash away some of his anxiety as it sluiced over his skin. _You've been dreaming of this for years. You should be happy. Not sick to your stomach._

When the water finally cooled, he reluctantly turned off the shower and reached for a towel. _Be careful what you wish for._

He dried himself off, then used the towel to wipe the steam from the mirror. The man who stared back at him looked haunted.

"All things excellent are as difficult as they are rare," (1) he said out loud. His reflection stared steadily back at him, unconvinced.

_Yes, but Spinoza was talking about salvation, not love._

_Maybe love can be a form of salvation._

Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. He felt as if his skin was inside out, exposing every nerve ending. His anxiety and agitation had coalesced into a knot right behind his breastbone, taking up all the space in his chest cavity and making it hard to breathe.

_I've got to get a grip on myself._ He pulled on boxers and a T-shirt and went to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. As the first hot gulps scalded his esophagus, he walked into the living room, seeking his habitual comfort.

He pressed a few buttons to turn on the sound system, then reached for the emergency CDs. He had a few which he kept in a small stack by themselves, rather than filed in with the rest of his collection, so he could locate them quickly when he needed them.

The plastic cases clicked softly as he flipped through them. It only took him a moment to find the one he sought. Elisabeth Schwarzkopf singing Strauss' _Vier letze Lieder._ As he had so many times before, he dropped the CD into the player and set it to repeat the third cut.

He sank down on the couch as the opening strains of _Beim Schlafengehen _broke over him. Closing his eyes, he soaked up the violin's lament, the soprano's cry. He would find healing here. He always did.

Schwarzkopf's voice soared, poignant, majestic. Sound waves shimmered in the room. The wild, keening beauty of the melody vibrated against the aching knot in his chest, caressing it, teasing it, rubbing the rough places smooth. Gradually, he felt calm creep in as the resonance brought him benediction and peace.

After three repetitions, he opened his eyes, grabbed the remote, and clicked off the repeat to let the CD cycle through the rest of its tracks. Taking another sip of his coffee, he mentally catalogued what he needed to accomplish before picking up Sara. _Reservations. Flowers. Clothes. Cleaning. A gift?_

_Okay, Gil, one step at a time, just like in a case. You can do this._

_Start at the beginning. Dinner reservations._ He looked around for the pants he had kicked off the night before and found his cell phone in the pocket. Luckily, Angelo's was still something of an undiscovered gem and he was able to get a table for 8:00.

_Next, flowers._ He debated with himself. _Roses are traditional, of course, but are they too much of a cliché? I want something as beautiful and elegant as Sara herself. _He picked up his phone again and explained his plight to the kind woman who answered at the florist down the street. A few minutes later, he hung up, pleased with her advice to get a combination of dark red roses and white calla lilies.

_Now you need to choose something to wear. _He rose and walked to his bedroom, grabbing the rest of last night's clothes on the way. He peered into his closet and sighed. His wardrobe was rather limited; he had the same basic clothes he wore to work every day and a few ugly Hawaiian shirts that were _de rigueur_ for entomological conferences. None of these were likely to impress Sara. Suddenly, he remembered something, and looked all the way to the right, past his suit jackets.

There, still in its dry-cleaning bag, was the shirt his mother had given him for his last birthday. He smiled at the memory of the note that had accompanied it:

Gil,

Happy birthday, son. Make your old mother happy and go on a date once in a while.

And wear this shirt; it will bring out the blue in your eyes.

Affectionately,

Mom

He had taken the shirt to be cleaned and pressed, but had never worn it. He slipped it out of its bag. The soft Egyptian cotton was woven in a herringbone pattern, the texture adding light and shadow to the vivid French blue tint. He nodded in affirmation. Sara had never seen him in anything like this – it was perfect. He selected a pair of charcoal grey slacks and hung them both on the outside of the closet door.

_Make the place presentable. _He didn't have a lot to do here; he was a neatnik at heart and the cleaning lady had made her weekly visit the day before. He hadn't actually slept _in_ his bed, so the sheets were still clean. Studiously trying to ignore the question of why he should be concerned about the state of his sheets, he wandered back to the living room and tried to look at it with Sara's eyes.

_You old fool. Do you really think she's going to come back here with you?_

_Well, no. In fact, I'm almost certain she isn't. But less probable things have happened. It doesn't hurt to be prepared._

_I can hope._

The place reflected him, he realized. His bookshelves were overflowing; entomological and forensic texts competed for space with well-loved classics. CDs marched in neat rows under the sound system, arranged by composer and principal artist. A comfortable brown leather couch faced the gas fireplace he enjoyed on chilly evenings, and his favorite reading chair was angled in the corner. Mounted insect collections were framed on the walls.

_It will have to do. It's quirky, but so am I. And for some unfathomable reason, she seems to like me…_

He settled into his favorite chair with a sigh. _This event feels so momentous. I want to get her something to mark the occasion, something more significant than the flowers. But what?_

He thought back to what she had called the two of them. _Binary stars._ He wondered if he would be able to find a pendant or a pin depicting two stars dancing together.

_Well, that's not a bad idea. But that would have to be a custom piece. Not enough time._

A beautiful brass compass… maybe in a hand-carved wooden case.

_Please. So she can find her way? She's more than capable of doing that without your help._

He considered and rejected several more ideas, getting more frustrated by the minute.

_Okay, Gil. Think it through. What do you really hope to do with this gift?_

_I want to give her something concrete. Something that she can hold and touch. A talisman for the times when I stumble and words fail me._

Suddenly, he knew what he would do. He glanced at the clock. 6:10 PM. If he hurried, he should have just enough time to dress, pick up the flowers, and run one other errand before he was due at Sara's.

(1) Seventeenth-century Dutch philosopher Baruch Spinoza


	5. Ch 4: Vernal Equinox

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature, for the whole story, though this chapter is pretty tame

**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.  
**Author's Notes:** Nomadic Soul, thanks for your continued excellence as beta.

Comments are, always, greatly appreciated.

**Chapter Four: Vernal Equinox**

Grissom rang the doorbell to Sara's apartment. Shifting nervously from foot to foot, he tucked the flowers behind his back and mentally rehearsed the little speech he had practiced. The door opened promptly, and he got his first glimpse of her.

Words died in his throat. She wore a delicate sweater in a rich burgundy hue. The long sleeves accentuated her slender wrists, and one side wrapped across the other, tying at the side and exposing a perfect vee of milky skin. Paired with loosely flowing black silk pants and black strappy sandals, the effect was stylishly graceful. A heavy silver rope chain with a garnet cabochon pendant was her only adornment.

She tipped her head to the side and smiled the crooked grin he knew so well. Seeing that smirk in the midst of her elegant perfection… _ohSara. So lovely._

"Grissom? Um, did you want to come in?" There was laughter in her voice, but warmth and kindness in her face. Still unable to speak, he handed her the flowers. Eyes widening, she took them, making a soft "Oh…" of delight.

"What a unique combination!" Inhaling deeply, she soaked in the scent of roses and calla lilies. Laying them on the counter, she rummaged under the sink for a vase.

As she busied herself arranging the blooms, he took the opportunity to steady his breathing. All his thoughts and plans about _playing it cool_ had fled. He felt apprehensive, abraded, exposed - barely sixteen and every minute of fifty. And gloriously, gloriously happy.

With the newly arranged bouquet in her hands, she beamed at him. "Thank you so much! They're incredible. I've never – you didn't need to do this." Crossing the room, she set the vase in the middle of the table and turned back to him, joy in her smile. "But I'm glad you did."

_Say something, Gil. She's going to think you're an idiot. _

"Cat got your tongue?" Her tone was light and teasing, but he saw concern intensify the shadows fatigue and sorrow had etched under her eyes.

The silence stretched out awkwardly. She smiled a little at his discomfiture. He held his hands out, palms up, juggling them a little in an expression of uncertainty. He noted with detachment that they were shaking a little. "Sara… I… I don't know how to do this."

All humor and amusement left her face. Her brown eyes locked on his blue ones, and he swallowed at the intensity he saw there. She caught one of his hands in hers, lifting it to her lips. Slowly, deliberately, she pressed a kiss to his palm, curled his fingers back to cover it, and wrapped his closed hand in both of hers. "_I_ do."

She stood without moving, not looking away or releasing his hand, just letting the moment spin out, endlessly. "You're okay, Griss. _We're_ okay." As she caressed his thumb with hers, he saw no reproach in her clear, direct gaze. Gradually, ever so slowly, he felt the panic recede.

"Sorry about that little moment of aphasia." He shook his head, embarrassed. "Guess I've ruined my chance to be debonair tonight, huh?"

"Oh, Griss. I don't need pretense. I just need you."

_What did I do to earn this incredible reward? Whatever it was, I'm grateful, so grateful._

"Sara, you – you humble me."

Needing to lighten the mood, she pulled away. "Look, I know we have a lot to talk about, last night being highest on the list. But just for tonight – let's relax and enjoy each other. No deep conversations tonight, just – fun. A gift to ourselves." She reached up tentatively, touching his cheek softly. "Okay?"

And suddenly, it was. "Okay, honey. Okay."

"Griss?" Sara asked, as she watched him put the key in the ignition of his vintage Mercedes. "Did I tell you that you look incredible tonight?"

_Thanks for the shirt, Mom._ "Not even close to you, honey. You look… incandescent."

A pleased glow suffused her face. "That's one of the nicest things anyone has ever said to me."

Nothing interrupted the gentle purr of the engine as he eased the car out of its parking spot and onto the road. "Do you usually drive in silence?" she asked with a quizzical look on her face.

"What do you mean?"

"You don't have any music on."

"Oh. Well, I like the thinking time."

"Mmm. That fits you." She curled to face him, tucking one foot up, comfortable. "Do you like music at all?"

"Of _course_ I do. Jazz, classical, big band…"

"What do you like best?"

He considered for a moment. "Well, my mother played a lot of big band music when I was growing up, so that's probably what I've liked the longest. Even after she started to lose her hearing, she would hold her hands on the speakers to feel the vibrations. And jazz is so audacious and free. But I guess if I had to choose I would say classical."

"Why?"

"I suppose because it speaks to me on an elemental level. It gives… shape and voice to things I don't know how to express."

"I know exactly what you mean. I've always thought that one of the odd blessings of the night shift is that when I come home, my neighbors are all at work, and I can turn the music up as loud as I need to. Sometimes I just need a little catharsis."

_Oh, Sara. I want to be the one who binds your wounds. _"So… what do you choose after a tough case?"

"Well, I guess it depends whether or not I want to wallow in depression. If I do," she gave him a rueful shrug, "then maybe _Good Feeling_ by the Violent Femmes, or something by The Smiths."

"And if you don't?"

"Hmm, I don't know. Pete Townshend, if I'm in a decent mood, or anything Celtic. If I'm angry, Alanis Morrisette or Pink Floyd. I have a pretty wide variety in my collection." She glanced at him playfully. "Ever heard of any of them?"

"_Everyone _knows Pink Floyd. And Pete Townshend's from The Who, right?"

"Yeah, but I like his solo stuff better."

"Would you play some for me sometime?"

"I'd be delighted to."

He glanced away from the road long enough to give her a warm smile. "Sara?"

"Mmm?"

"I really like this. Having you here in my car. Having this conversation with you."

"I know. Me, too. I just – I want to soak it all in."

"Do you know what today is?" She shook her head. "Today is our vernal equinox."

Instantly comprehending his meaning, she smiled. "The start of our spring." She laid her hand palm up on his thigh in an unspoken invitation.

Answering her, he laced his right hand with hers, squeezing gently. They drove the rest of the way in companionable silence.


	6. Ch 5: Thermogenesis

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature

**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.  
**Author's Notes:** Nomadic Soul, thanks as always for the beta work. I really needed it this time.

Thank you also to those who have been commenting. I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter finished... it was quite recalcitrant.

And one more note: you'll get to know Lisa Archer a bit in this chapter. She is loosely based on an actual person I used to know, who is now deceased. So please be kind in your comments about her.

**Chapter Five: Thermogenesis**

Grissom held the door open for Sara as they walked into Angelo's a few minutes before 8:00. Pleased, he realized the place was just as he remembered… comfortable and unpretentious. The tables were covered with burgundy cloths set on the diagonal, so that their dark wooden corners peeked out. Chubby white candles in hurricane globes burned in their centers, granting each group of diners an intimate glow in the otherwise dimly-lit room. The intricately-carved booths upholstered in cordovan leather lining the far wall offered an even greater level of privacy, each one its own secret world. Blanketing the room, the sound of an Italian tenor knit together the clink of dishes and the low hum of conversation into a rich, warm tapestry.

"Oh, Griss, this is incredible. It smells delectable in here!"

He inhaled, breathing in the aroma of wood smoke intertwined with basil, garlic, and tomatoes. "I think they have an open-hearth oven for their breads and those fancy pizzas. I'm glad you like it."

She smiled at him in warm delight. For a moment he forgot to breathe as he drank in the gift of her pleasure.

Placing his hand at the small of her back, he guided her to the maitre d' and announced, "Grissom, for eight o'clock."

_I can't believe I'm actually here, with her. Touching her._

"Certainly, sir. This way, please." The man showed them to one of the booths along the back wall. "Will this do?"

"Sara?" He looked to her for confirmation. "I thought a booth might be better for conversation, but if you would rather have a table…"

"No, this is perfect. Thanks." His hand slipped from her back as she entered the booth, but she caught her fingers in his and gave a gentle squeeze. Shedding his light jacket and placing it on the seat, he sat across from her.

After telling them that their waiter would be with them shortly, the maitre d' walked away. They looked at each other uncertainly, not sure where to begin their conversation.

"Sara, I…" "Grissom, I…" They both laughed at their awkward beginning.

"You first," he said, and she nodded.

"I just wanted to tell you that, no matter where this goes or doesn't go between us, I'm grateful for tonight. For the chance."

"So am I, honey. So am I."

Luckily, their waiter arrived at that moment, preventing the uncomfortable silence from reinstating itself. He handed them menus as he said, "Good evening and welcome to Angelo's. My name is Bruno and I'll be serving you tonight. Our special this evening is sea bass baked with garlic, tomatoes and peppers, and served over a bed of risotto. May I start you off with something to drink?

She looked at Grissom. "Want to share a carafe of the house red?"

"That sounds great, thanks."

Bruno nodded. "Very well. I'll be back to take your order shortly."

Sara perused the menu, sighing in pleasure over some of the choices. Grissom glanced at his briefly before putting it down, taking advantage of the moment to watch her unobserved.

_Awestruck._ The word came to him, a perfect summation of how he felt in her presence. He noted the way her long slim fingers curved over the side of the menu, nails short and unpolished. Her dark hair gleamed, and he studied the way she had tucked it behind her ears so it wouldn't shadow her face.

_How can you move me so much without saying a word? I love the honesty of those bare nails_… _and I'm jealous of those fingertips that get to stroke your hair and the helixes of your beautiful ears. Oh, Sara… to touch you there…_

She looked up abruptly and caught him staring. "What are you going to have?"

"You."

Her eyes darkened, nostrils flaring slightly as she saw the hunger behind his uncharacteristic boldness.

_Watch it, Gil. You're crossing the line here. Don't make assumptions._ Intentionally dampering down his desire, he smiled ruefully. "Sorry, honey. It's just that… candlelight becomes you."

Her pleased smile combined with a slight blush let him know that it was okay. _This time._ He covered his embarrassment by answering her question. "I think I'll have the sea bass special. What about you?"

"Well, there's so much that looks good, but I think I'll choose the angel hair pasta with mushrooms, tomatoes, and olives, dressed in oil and garlic… and maybe an order of bruschetta to share?"

"I'd like that."

The uncomfortable silence returned, but Bruno's arrival with their wine kept it mercifully short. As the waiter walked away after pouring their wine and taking their order, Grissom raised his glass to Sara.

"A toast… to us, and to possibilities."

Smiling, she met his wine with hers, glasses colliding with a soft clink. "To us, and to transformation."

Puzzled, he tipped his head to the side, studying her. "What are we transforming?"

She laughed outright at that. "Us, Griss. Our relationship has been dysfunctional for so long. Maybe if we really try, we can forge some new patterns. And move forward, together. What do you say?"

"To transformation, then!" They both took a slow sip of wine, and the nervous tension that had shimmered between them dissipated.

The conversation flowed easily as they enjoyed their time together. Between bites of bruschetta, he learned that she loved hiking, hated the color orange, had dreamed of being an astronaut as a child, and had flirted with the idea of majoring in applied mathematics before settling on physics.

While twirling pasta around her fork, she learned that he still sent Christmas cards to his childhood best friend, Mike Masterson, that he had dreamed of playing professional baseball, that he had lost his virginity at age seventeen when the girl next door came home from college, and that he hated disco even though he was a child of the seventies.

As the exquisite sea bass melted on his tongue, he learned that her biggest regret from college was not studying abroad, that her wildest unfulfilled dream was to go sea kayaking in Alaska, and that she was addicted to Sudoku.

Stabbing one last errant snow pea, she watched as he put down his fork. "You know, we've talked a lot more about me tonight than about you."

"I know. But – you're so much more interesting. I'm not used to talking about myself." He closed his eyes briefly, waiting for the attack.

She reached across the table and touched his hand lightly. "It's okay, Griss. This is uncharted territory for both of us. We have all the time in the world."

Grateful, he gripped her slim fingers in a wordless thanks. "Are you interested in dessert?"

"Depends what's on the menu." She wiggled her eyebrows at him suggestively and was delighted to be rewarded with a faint blush kissing his cheeks. "You're cute when you're flustered."

"That's good, I guess." His voice grew serious. "Because I feel like I'm always flustered around you."

"Griss…"

Holding up one hand to silence her, he rummaged in the jacket which lay next to him in the booth and drew out a slim package, neatly wrapped in dark green paper. He hesitated for a moment, then slid it across the table to her.

"What's this?"

"Open it. I wanted to get you something to mark this occasion…" He shifted in his seat, looking distinctly nervous.

Intrigued, she carefully removed the paper, using her short nails to slit the tape so she didn't damage anything. She turned the slightly worn volume over in her hands, running her fingers along the saddle-brown leather binding. "Shakespeare's sonnets?"

At his nodded encouragement, she opened the cover, and read aloud the inscription written in his small, neat hand, facing the frontispiece:

_To Sara,_

_As we embark on the next phase of our journey together, with reverence and joy and hope for what the morrow may bring. _

_Yours,_

_Gil_

"Oh, Griss," she began, and looked up to find him watching her attentively.

"Sara, I'm… I'm not good with words, and yet there are so many things I want to say to you. I was hoping that…"

…_that this incredible master can somehow measure the breadth and depth of my love for you…_

"You're better with words than you give yourself credit for. But I love it, and I'll treasure it always."

He smiled, relaxing a little. "I marked one for tonight. Shall I read it to you?"

She nodded, handing the book back to him. Not needing the words, he was nonetheless grateful for something to fill his nervous hands. Opening to the page marked by a small slip of paper barely protruding from the top, he looked intently at her and began to recite.

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove:_

_O no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wandering bark,_

_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle's compass come:_

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

_If this be error and upon me proved, _

_I never writ, nor no man ever loved. _(1)

He closed the book slowly, gathering his courage. "Sara," he began, reaching across the table and stroking her hand gently. "The way I feel about you today is just an intensification of the way I felt when we first met. Nothing alters it, honey. No matter what circumstances have come along, nothing has shaken the love I feel for you. And I… I want you to know that, so you'll never feel you have to change for me or hide from me. I want to be your partner, Sara, for wherever life takes us.

"I hope I'm not saying too much too soon, but I feel like it's very late already, and…"

_Why isn't she saying anything? _

Her eyes were wide with desire and bright with unshed tears. "Let's go home."

Hands linked easily together, Sara led Grissom into her apartment. "Want another glass of wine? Or I can make a pot of coffee…"

"Coffee would be great, thanks."

"Okay, make yourself comfortable, I'll be right in."

While she set up the coffee maker, he sat down on the end of the couch and closed his eyes. The warm glow of the wine and the easy comfort of the evening had him feeling more peaceful than he could remember. Sighing happily, he slipped effortlessly into sleep.

"Griss?" He felt a tentative nudge of his knee. Opening his eyes, he saw her standing in front of him, two steaming mugs in hand.

Smiling with pleasure at the simple rightness of the scene, he reached out for one. "Sara. Guess I dozed off – sorry about that."

_But I hope you know what a compliment it is for me to be relaxed enough to sleep in front of you. _

"No problem. I love that you trust me enough to do that. Look, are you too tired? Do you need to go home?"

"No, I'm enjoying this evening too much for it to end quite yet. Sit down with me for a little while."

She kicked off her sandals and curled up on the other end of the couch. "You don't mind, do you? They're pretty comfortable, but it feels good to get them off at the end of the day."

"Here, allow me." He motioned for her to put her feet in his lap. She stretched out and purred with contentment as he began to massage one of her feet. He worked in silence for a while, stretching and loosening each of her toes in turn.

_It feels so good to do this for you, honey. To give you this little oasis of relaxation. You have some hard days coming up. I wish I could go with you and rub all the tension away each night._

_I wish you would talk about it._

"Sara." His request was gentle. "Tell me about Lisa."

Tears threatened instantly at his words. Sustained by the warm pressure of his hands on the ball of her foot, she took a deep breath and blinked them away.

"Lisa. We met on move-in day at Harvard. I think most people had talked to their roommates on the phone by then, but she and I had never managed to connect, so we were brand-new to each other. I was pretty apprehensive – I mean, I'm not the most socially-gifted person _now,_ so you can imagine me back then…

_Oh, Sara, I can. Arms full of books, all long legs and infinite ideas. Fierce in your pursuit of knowledge… _

"…and I just knew I was going to get some party goddess social queen as a roommate."

"And did you?"

"Well, yes. But my mistake was in thinking that would be a bad thing. I was so wrong, Griss. It wasn't just a good thing. It was the _best_ thing.

"She was late for move-in. She was late for _everything._ I had unpacked what I brought, which wasn't much, and I remember sitting on my bed with my knees tucked up under my chin, wondering what to do next. Trying to swallow the panic. And all of a sudden this – this _tornado_ burst into the room.

"She was beautiful. Tall, with this mass of curly dark hair, and the brightest blue eyes. She was really tan, and she had on the cutest little outfit. I wanted to hate her."

Intrigued, he started working on her other foot. "Why didn't you?"

"I don't know, really. You just – you couldn't. She had such a warmth about her – it was captivating. I mean, there I was, sitting on the bed, all weird and sulking. And this goddess bounces into the room, drops all her stuff, and _pounces_ on me. Hugs me so tight I can't breathe, squealing about how we're going to be best friends and how great Harvard is going to be…"

"I'm surprised. I would have guessed you would find something like that – offputting."

"I know, it should have been, right? Not my kind of thing at all. But she… caught me up and swept me along. We went to dinner together that night, and she linked arms with me and dragged me into the dining hall, telling anyone who would listen that we were the dynamic duo and we were going to be _immortal_…"

_Oh, Sara. She wasn't, was she? And neither are we. I'm so glad we're not wasting any more time, honey._

A deep, steadying breath. "We were inseparable for the next four years. People loved her; they just gravitated towards her, and I – I got to bask in that glow. And I think… I think I centered her. We balanced each other like that – I was the darkness, she was the light… I was the storm, she was the sun… she made me feel _normal._ For the only time in my life."

Her voice broke. "I can't believe she's gone." Tears began slowly, making little rivulets down her cheeks, but she made no effort to wipe them away. "I – I don't know what to do, Griss."

His voice was rough with emotion as he answered her. "You honor her. You honor her by telling her story. You honor her by… by acknowledging the pain, by accepting it, by embracing it.

"Let it break over you, Sara. I'll be your anchor."

She held her hands out blindly and made a choking sob as he took them and pulled her close. Great keening wails were wrenched from her as she doubled over with the pain, pausing only to draw in desperate lungsful of air. He simply sat with her, reassuring her with his presence, not repelled by the animalistic sounds she made.

Gradually, her grief ebbed and she settled back into consciousness. He slid her off his lap and onto the couch and left the room briefly. She was vaguely aware of water running in the kitchen. Returning, he handed her a box of tissues. "Blow your nose."

When she had, he tenderly wiped her face with a kitchen towel he had dampened with cool water, carefully erasing the remnants of her tears.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes, thanks," she said, amazed at the comfort she had drawn from him.

He looked at her reddened, puffy eyes. "You're so beautiful, Sara."

"Oh, please, all teary and snotty…"

"No." He cut her off. "You're so beautiful."

She raised her eyes to his, surprised, and was caught off guard by the electricity that suddenly sparked between them.

"Don't ever hide, honey," he whispered, and leaned in, pressing a kiss against her shocked lips. "I want you just as you are."

She moaned slightly and opened her mouth to him. He kissed her again, more thoroughly, tasting tears and coffee on top of the wine and rich spices of dinner, a heady mix.

_Ohgod, Sara. I knew you would taste good but I didn't know, I had no idea… you taste like heaven itself._

She laid back on the couch and drew him down with her, exploring his mouth with equal fervor while her hands twined in his grey curls.

He pulled back a little to look at her, flushed and panting beneath him. "So sweet, Sara." He bent back down and followed the vee of her sweater with his tongue, delighting in the glazed look in her eyes.

_Is this really real?_

He twisted his hips slightly to get comfortable between her thighs, then continued his ministrations. He slid his tongue back up the other side of the vee, then pressed kisses down her arm and into her palm. At her gasp of pleasure he smiled and drew each finger into his mouth in turn, suckling, nipping, rubbing his teeth over the ridges and whorls on her fingertips.

"Ohgod… Griss… so erotic." Her hips bucked upward. "D- don't stop," she whimpered as he let the last finger slip away.

He sat up and pulled her with him, resting his forehead against hers as he tried to catch his breath. "Christ. What do we do with this? I've never felt anything like this kind of combustion, this… this… _thermogenesis._ It just… consumes me…"

"Then take me," she begged.

"I _can't."_

"Why not?"

"Because… it scares me. I want to make love with you more than I've ever wanted anything in my life, honey. And I'm as certain as I have ever been of anything that it will be a transformative experience. Merging with you will be like shedding my skin… I'll be ready for new growth, but so vulnerable. I… I can't, Sara, when you're flying to Boston tomorrow. I need to wait until I can see you and hold you and be with you the next day, and the day after that… please?"

"Ohhhh, Griss." She groaned in near-physical pain. "I understand, of course. But, ohhhh…"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry, honey. I'll make it up to you, I promise. I want our first time together to be… pleasing you pleases me, Sara. Will you let me?"

Soft and low, "I will, Griss. And… you'll be pleasing me in my fantasies tonight."

_Sara thinking of me. Sara touching herself while she thinks of me. Holy mother of god. Sara moaning my name while she…_

Ruthlessly, he slammed the door on that line of thought. _Get out while you still can, Gil. When she gets back from Boston… _

"I have to go, honey." He kissed her once more, fiercely, then stood, pulling her up with him. "May I take you to the airport?"

"No, I'll drive myself, since I'm getting an open-ended ticket. But I'll call you when I get there."

"Okay." He rested his forehead against hers for the briefest of moments.

_Gil, you have got to go. NOW. Or you won't go at all…_

"Safe travels, Sara."

He brushed his lips against hers in a gentle farewell, then forced himself to walk to the door. As his hand touched the cool metal of the knob, he heard a soft voice.

"I really do love you, Grissom."

"I know, honey. I love you, too." He slipped through the door and into the night.

(1) William Shakespeare, of course… Sonnet 116


	7. Ch 6: Solar Flare

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature

**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.  
**Author's Notes:** Nomadic Soul, thanks as always for the beta work. Hope you enjoy the changes - I decided the part we discussed was too out of character.

Thank you also to those who have been commenting. It means a lot to me to know that you are enjoying this.

**Chapter Six: Solar Flare**

Grissom gave up trying to read the latest issue of the _Journal of Forensic Sciences_ on his laptop. He appreciated the ease of searching offered by the new online format, but missed the familiar comfort of curling up in his favorite reading perch with the old-fashioned paper version. Turning off the desk lamp, he wandered aimlessly into his living room and rubbed his thumb over the worn leather of that chair.

_Come on, Gil, what's eating you tonight? It isn't like you to be so unfocused._

_Sara's been gone for over a week. Eight days to be specific._

_Well, you knew she was getting an open-ended ticket. She has more than plenty of vacation time coming._

_I don't begrudge her the time. I just want to know why she hasn't called since the day she got there._

Shivering, he flipped the switch on the wall to light the gas fireplace and poured himself a scotch. Sipping slowly, he sank onto his couch and stared morosely at the flames. The night was cool by Vegas standards, but he knew that his pervasive chill came from the ice numbing his heart and not the brisk February air.

_What if she's changed her mind?_

_Be reasonable. She's waited for you for how many years now? She isn't going anywhere._

_Okay, what if something happened? What if she's hurt? I know this is a tough trip for her, why couldn't she reach out and let me help? One phone call after the service… just to let me know how she's doing…_

Unaccountably, surprisingly, he felt a hot needle of anger stitch its way through the cold blanketing his heart.

_What if she's punishing me?_

In the distance, he heard the clap and roll of thunder, and then a strong pattering sound as a rare rainstorm began to pelt his windows.

_Perfect. Even the weather has caught my bad mood._

Pouring himself another scotch, he began to contemplate getting resoundingly drunk. He moved to the bookshelf and selected a CD, slipping it into the player and queuing up the second cut - Johnny Cash's cover of _Hurt._ The Man in Black: his old, reliable friend. He sank back down on the couch, puzzled by the sudden tightness in his throat at the truth within the familiar lyrics.

Halfway through the second stanza, the spare rawness of Cash's voice was disrupted by the maddeningly melodious chime of the doorbell. Briefly, he pondered who it might be.

_Catherine, needing my signature on something?_

_Nah, she would have called first._

_Jim, then, wanting a drink and a chat._

_No, he's on duty tonight._

Deciding it must be someone selling something, he settled back to ignore it. In a moment, the soft two-tone summons came again, this time punctuated by a pounding.

Sighing, he put his scotch down and walked to the foyer, feeling aggrieved as he turned the knob and pulled the door inward.

A gust of wind dashed his face with a few of the raindrops, but he didn't feel them in his shock. Standing on his doorstep, Sara looked waiflike. He couldn't discern her face as she was backlit by the streetlamp, but he could see that her hair clung damply to her head and her shoulders were hunched against the chill and the rain. All around her a light veil of fog shifted in the wind, illumined by the watery blue glow of the halogen overhead. There was an otherworldliness to the scene that made him want to pinch himself to be sure he wasn't dreaming.

She said nothing, simply studied him in the same measured way that he took stock of her. After a long moment, he stepped aside to allow her entry. She walked past him as he shut the door. Scorched by a solar flare of pure emotion, he gripped the knob hard to calm himself before he turned to face her.

_Deep breath, Gil. _

A small pool of water was already forming on the tile around her feet as she stood there, dripping, chin lifted defiantly. Her skin was pale, but there was a red bloom across her cheekbones and a cold glitter in her eyes that told him she felt the supercharged moment as much as he did.

Overcome by a tide that was equal parts relief, fury, and desire, he moved quickly, pinning her against the wall before she had a chance to react. He tasted the rain on her lips, noticing the contrast of cold and hot, catching her soft moan with his tongue and feeding it back to her.

She tugged his shirt free of his jeans and slipped her hands inside, running them up his torso. Her fingers were icy, but they burned a trail of fire. Hot and cold again.

He mirrored her actions, spanning her ribs with his strong hands, skating his thumbs along the underside of her breasts. He hummed deep in his throat as their tongues tangled together.

_ChristSaraIwantyou. Wantyou. Want to lose myself in you until I don't know where I end and you begin._

Her frozen fingers worked open the top button of his jeans. Frenzied, she kissed him, biting hard on his lower lip.

It hurt.

It _really_ hurt.

Stunned by the taste of blood in his mouth, he pulled back. Her eyes were wide with shock and alarm, and he knew she had tasted it too.

Breathing ragged, eyes a wintry blue, he looked at her for a moment, then turned away. Disappearing into the living room, he silenced Johnny mid-verse and turned off the gas to the fireplace. When he returned to her, his mouth was set in a grim line.

"Come on." He grabbed her hand and dragged her to the door.

"What… where are we going?" The fear in her eyes calmed him slightly.

"Our first time together is _not_ going to be about anger, Sara.We are going to the park. And we're going to talk."

"But it's freezing. And raining."

"Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." He opened the door and stormed out into the night.

He wouldn't look at her as they walked, block after block. The cold rain was slowing, but the silence between them was glacial. Her long legs easily kept pace with his, and he could feel the waves of terror emanating from her.

It made him feel small and shamed. He had wanted to get them outside and away from temptation so they could confront the anger that was carving a rift between them, not scare her to death.

Without breaking his stride, he reached out and caught her hand in his, squeezing their fingers together in mute reassurance. He thought he heard a sob, and the sound pierced the fury raging in his heart.

_You really are an ass, Gil._

As they turned into the park and he led her toward the nearest bench, he realized that his anger had quelled, dissolved by the remnants of the storm into something less frightening.

Drawing her down onto the wet wooden seat, he asked simply, "Why?"

Looking stricken, she touched the wound on his lip with her thumb. "How badly did I hurt you?"

Ignoring her question, he simply shook his head, dislodging her tender contact. "No, Sara. I want to know why you're so angry."

The cold glitter was back in her eyes. "Well, aren't you solicitous all of a sudden."

He flinched, but years of interrogation experience had taught him the value of silence. Watchful waiting could yield results unmatched by the most aggressive questioning.

_Bite your tongue, Gil. Let her have her say, all of it._

"You want to know why I'm so angry? Well, for starters, how about because I'm alive and Lisa is dead. Is that a _valid_ enough reason for you?"

He simply looked at her, blue gaze infuriatingly steady on hers. She tipped her head to the side, narrowing her eyes as the attack became personal.

"Or, did you mean…" Her voice was deceptively quiet. "…why am I so angry _at you?"_

He nodded slightly, drawing in a deep breath, and she drew a perverse satisfaction from his apprehension.

"Well, let me see. I lose one of my two best friends in the whole world. I'm feeling worse than awful about the loss, because I know I should have been there for her at the end, and I wasn't. So I'm heading off for a tough time.

"I call my _other _best friend to let him know my flight landed safely. And his voice is such a lifeline for me. Even after we hang up, I can't put down my cell phone. I keep it wrapped in my hand, close to my heart, because I can't quite release the last vestiges of that connection. And I think to myself, _I can do this. If I can hear the love in his voice each night, then I can get through this._"

Her voice cracked. "He doesn't call the first night and I think, _Well, we just talked last night. He'll call tomorrow._ And the next night I think, _He knows tomorrow is the service. I'm sure he'll call in the morning."_

"And the next day I sit through the service, thinking how I've never seen anything like it. The whole thing was beautiful. Joyous. A celebration of her life, and at the same time, exquisitely, excruciatingly sad. And all I could think about the whole time was telling you about it, when you called that night.

"But you never did call, did you? And even then, I'm such a glutton for punishment, when my plane landed tonight, all I wanted to do was get here as quickly as I could, to lose myself in the comfort and love that would surely be waiting for me."

As the realization of what he had done set in, Johnny's voice sang in his mind.

"_What have I become, my sweetest friend…_

_Everyone I know goes away in the end…" (1)_

She was crying in earnest now. "Because you said to me, you _said,_ 'I want to be your partner, Sara, for wherever life takes us.' And then you opened the door tonight, and the look on your face was like… like I was some kind of annoying disturbance.

"_You can have it all… my empire of dirt…_

_I will let you down… I will make you hurt." (2)_

"So – now you know." At some point in her impassioned speech she had stood, and now she sank back to the bench, deflated. Staring brokenly at the trees fringing the park, she gathered her courage and looked over at him.

He was shaking his head slowly, a look of horror on his face as the full import of his actions washed over him. As she watched, he dropped his face into his hands. She could barely make out his muffled words as he rocked back and forth.

"Sorry, Sara. So sorry. So sorry. So sorry."

Abruptly, he raised his eyes to hers. Her throat constricted at what she saw etched on his face.

Naked longing.

Infinite sadness.

Bleak resignation.

Running his fingers through his wet hair, he sighed and began. "I didn't call because I thought… You wanted to drive yourself to the airport, and I thought it was your way of telling me you needed… space to do this. That you had to attend to this first. I had my finger on that speed dial button so many times, and I had to keep talking myself back down from it. And by tonight… I was… I was furious at you for not calling all week. For trying to be tough and not letting me share the load with you…"

Her shoulders started shaking and her mouth twitched as she tried, unsuccessfully, to control the nervous laughter.

_How can you laugh when you're leaving me?_

"This isn't funny, Sara. I _told_ you I'm terrible at relationships."

"It _is_ funny, Griss, in a sad way. We're _both_ terrible at relationships." She smiled ruefully. "We're perfect for each other. We just… we just need to be patient. And learn to talk a little more."

A stunned joy broke out on his face. "It isn't over?"

She traced a finger down his cheek. "It will never be over, Griss. We're like wolves. Mated for life." She sneezed.

"Oh, honey." He stood, drawing her up to join him and wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug. "Let's go home and get warm."

(1) (2) Lyrics to _Hurt_ by Trent Reznor


	8. Ch 7: The Pleiades

**Author:** geekyfrog  
**Rating:** Mature

**Pairing:** Grissom/Sara  
**Spoilers:** general through the end of Season Six  
**Disclaimer:** I'm not affiliated with CBS and don't have any claim to these characters.  
**Author's Notes:** I'm sorry it took so long to get this chapter posted; I hope you find it worth the wait. Nomadic Soul, thanks for helping me take this to the next level.

Hand in hand, Grissom and Sara walked back to his townhouse in silence. Lost in thought, linked by touch, each of them musing about what was to come. Knowing they were about to cross a threshold, together.

He turned his key in the lock and let her pass the entryway first. Closing the door, he turned to her, humbled by what he saw on her face.

_Trust._

Words seemed incapable of expressing how he felt in that moment. Even his thoughts were inchoate, the internal dialogue and commentary which always played in his mind temporarily stilled by the surge of sheer emotion rising in his chest.

And so he simply cupped her chin in his hands, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones like a blind person learning a face. Wanting to memorize her skin. Hoping to immortalize the moment.

Her face mirrored his amazement. Lips slightly parted, eyes huge, she reveled in the gentleness of his caress, the kiss of his fingertips on her skin.

"Beautiful Sara," he whispered. "I want to make love to you tonight. May I?"

Her response was soft and low. "Yes, Gil."

He swallowed, hard. "And, I want to… I have waited so long for this, honey. Will you let me take my time and please you?"

Puzzled, she tipped her head to the side. "Of course you'll please me. Just being with you pleases me."

"I mean…" At a loss for words, he trailed off, unsure how to express to her that he wanted to delay his own pleasure to focus on hers.

"Griss, we'll please each other. It isn't necessary…"

"It isn't necessary for you, I understand that. But it is… it's important to me, Sara."

Understanding, she acquiesced.

He closed his eyes, relief bathing his features. "Thank you."

In response, she pulled him into a tight hug.

He was gone for just a few moments, returning with two heavy Turkish towels, an old patchwork quilt, and his bathrobe. He indicated a door down the hall. "Laundry room is in there, so you can get out of your wet clothes. I'll put the fireplace on in the living room and you can curl up there while I get a few things ready for us. Do you want a cup of tea?"

Not sure how he had transitioned so quickly from tenderness to task, she was caught off-guard. "Umm, no, thanks. I'll get warm as soon as I'm dried off…"

"A glass of wine, then?"

"Okay, sure. That would be nice."

Bemused, she took her time peeling off her wet things, rubbing her body briskly with one of the towels to restore her circulation, and wrapping the other around her hair. Pulling the belt on his robe taut around her waist, she peeked out the door, feeling a little foolish.

He was nowhere in sight, so she walked to the living room, quilt folded over her arm. The fireplace was flickering and a glass of wine awaited her on the coffee table. She curled up on the couch, tucking the quilt around her, and sipped the wine gratefully. The robe smelled of him, and she could hear his soft footsteps padding about upstairs. She wondered idly what he was doing, then closed her eyes and began to fantasize in earnest about where the night would take them.

He found her like that, and paused to enjoy the view before interrupting her reverie. Her cheeks had flushed nicely from the wine and the fire, and she seemed unaware of his presence, lost in her dream.

_Oh, Sara. Oh honey. Mine. You're mine. _

_You're mine._

He coughed gently to announce himself, and she opened her eyes, stretching languidly. "So… you're back."

His mouth went dry as his robe slipped off her right shoulder. "I… uhh… I drew you a bath."

Pulling the robe back up and tugging to tighten the belt, she smiled. "How perfect. Which way?"

He took her hand and led her up the stairs to a door on the right side of the hallway. "In here."

She looked in and gasped. By the size of the room, she realized this must be the master bath. The floor was tiled in beige, and on the dark blue countertop were two more towels, a tube of toothpaste, and a new toothbrush still in its packaging. The lights were apparently on a rheostat, because they were dimmed, and three fat candles burned on the wide edge of the huge tub.

He indicated a switch on the wall. "That will turn on the jets in the tub..."

Surprised, she looked at him. "Aren't you going to join me?"

He blushed. "Umm, not tonight. I want you in my bed, Sara, and if… if I join you in here, I don't think we'll make it that far…"

"Oh. Okay." She smiled bashfully, ducking her head.

"I'm going to run down and take a quick shower in the guest bath. Take as long as you want, and when you're ready, that door…" he pointed with his chin, "…opens into my bedroom. I'll be waiting for you." He pressed a quick kiss to her lips and was gone.

Padding barefoot about his room, wearing only a clean pair of boxers, he lit the candles he had placed on the dresser and nightstand. Blowing out the match, he watched the little wisp of smoke rise from it as it cooled, willing his nervousness to dissipate with the plume.

While he waited for her, he looked out the cathedral window at the stars, glad that the passing storm had carried the clouds away with it. The incredible view of the heavens was what had prompted him to buy this townhouse, and he found such comfort in their constancy. He calmed himself by looking for the Pleiades, reciting their names like a prayer:

_Celaeno, Electra, Taygeta, Maia, Asterope 1…_

Before he completed his mantra, the click of the latch told him Sara had come into the room. He heard her soft "Oh…" as she surveyed his most personal space, his private sanctuary. Without turning, he tried to picture what she was seeing.

_The first thing that will catch her attention is the candles, and then my old wrought-iron bed, perfectly centered under the glorious starscape. She'll notice that I have the sheets turned down, and then she'll see me, standing over here at the side of the window…_

He felt her hand on his back, felt the soft heat of her lips as she pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder, felt his breathing quicken and his body tighten in response.

_I can't turn around. I can't look at her yet. I want to take this slowly, want to savor every minute. But if she's naked, I… I…_

"Sara." His voice sounded a little strangled. "Will you lay down on the bed for me? On your stomach?"

"Umm, okay…" Her voice was choked as well, and he was minutely calmed by the knowledge that she was equally affected.

He heard heavy fabric hitting the floor as she dropped the robe, heard the soft creak of the bed frame as she lay down on the bed, heard her sigh of delight as she settled in.

Slowly he turned and savored the sight.

"Ohhh…" he breathed huskily. "Ohhh, Sara…"

Her pale skin glowed in the moonlight. She was completely nude, and she lay on her belly, head pillowed on her crossed arms. He saw her throat work as she swallowed.

"Griss? I… I'm really nervous."

"So am I, honey," he answered honestly, dropping to his knees to bring his face next to hers. "But it's just us, Sara. We're going exploring together. And there's nothing we're going to find that will do anything but make me love you more. Okay?"

She took in a deep breath and exhaled sharply. "Okay."

He looked at her body reverently. "You are so exquisite. Just let me love you, honey."

And she did.

Watching her chest rise and fall as she slept, tangled in his sheets, was the most spiritual experience he had known in recent memory. He lay on his side, head propped on one hand, close enough to be anointed by the chrism of each exhaled breath.

_Dear God, I'm not a faithful man. But tonight… tonight I believe._

Dark hair tousled, skin still kissed with the glow of satisfaction, she looked younger and more innocent than in her waking hours. Sleep erased the tension from her eyes, the guardedness from her face, giving him a glimpse of the Sara she might have been had her life had been different.

_But I want the Sara that she is._

His body was sated, but his synapses kept firing, attempting to maintain his gyroscopic axis as his world shifted and resettled about him. As he tried to make sense of his disorientation, a fragment of Ariel's song came to mind:

Full fathom five thy father lies:  
Of his bones are coral made:  
Those are pearls that were his eyes:  
Nothing of him that doth fade  
But doth suffer a sea-change  
Into something rich and strange. (1)

_Something rich and strange. So enhanced, so complex. Familiar and yet completely new._

He studied the contours of the room in the liquid moonlight.

_The window arches over my head, just like it always does. There's the ceiling fan I stare at when I can't sleep. The books on that low shelf are stacked just as haphazardly as yesterday. The Pleiades still stand guard in the heavens. Nothing has changed._

_Everything has changed._

He turned his attention back to the woman sleeping peacefully beside him, and was startled by a realization:

_I can never again sleep in this bed, in this room, without her. Any nights I spend alone will be in the guest room. She has transformed this space so completely that I can't inhabit it without her._

_She has transformed my life so completely that I can't inhabit it without her._

He waited for the panic, and was surprised by the peace which settled upon him, washing over him like a wave breaking on the beach, smoothing the rough sand of his broken life into something fresh and clean and whole.

Releasing him.

Freeing him.

Healing him.

With infinite tenderness, he stroked her cheek, whispering her name like a benediction. She stirred without waking, sighing sweetly and curling her body against his. He closed his eyes, laying his head down on the pillow and relaxing into her embrace.

And finally, he slept.

(1) William Shakespeare, _The Tempest_


End file.
